


Guts Can't Be Reworked

by 1833outboy (phancon)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Halloween, I have no idea how else to tag this, M/M, Pumpkins, Secrets, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 16:40:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21256394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phancon/pseuds/1833outboy
Summary: If anybody had asked Pete before today why he drove the ten miles out of town to get his pumpkin from Vaughn Farm every October, rather than one from the Target around the corner from his apartment, he would tell them honestly: he likes supporting small businesses and he likes the Vaughns.Plus, they have the biggest, best pumpkins in Illinois. No doubt about it.These are all very true things he could tell someone, but as Pete finds out on his fourth October visit to the Vaughns, there are other, much more enticing reasons to visit the farm. One enticing reason in particular. An enticing reason with plush lips and beautiful grey-blue eyes and feathery copper hair and a Racetraitor hat.





	Guts Can't Be Reworked

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what this is anymore. i've been staring at this fic for three weeks now and pretty much only just finished it. i'm just... relieved it's done. and done on time.
> 
> thank you as ever to the organisers of the collection and to the great people on discord for being supportive as ever.

If anybody had asked Pete before today why he drove the ten miles out of town to get his pumpkin from Vaughn Farm every October, rather than one from the Target around the corner from his apartment, he would tell them honestly: he likes supporting small businesses and he likes the Vaughns.

Plus, they have the biggest, best pumpkins in Illinois. No doubt about it. 

These are all very true things he could tell someone, but as Pete finds out on his fourth October visit to the Vaughns, there are other, much more enticing reasons to visit the farm. One enticing reason in particular. An enticing reason with plush lips and beautiful grey-blue eyes and feathery copper hair and a Racetraitor hat. 

Pete is standing next to a row of pumpkins that come up to his knees when he spots him; he’s standing awkwardly by a mother and her two young children, his hands shoved into the pockets of his ‘Vaughn Farm’ branded jacket, handing out nervous smiles and looking torn between wanting to run and wanting to help. He looks young, probably in his late teens, and keeps nodding as though to be done with the woman in front of him as fast as possible. 

As the mother leaves with a pumpkin in both hands and her children in tow, Pete moves in to grin at the new, attractive stranger. 

“I’m looking for a pumpkin,” he tells the man.

The man in front of him raises an eyebrow. “Um. Really?” He eyes the dozens and dozens of rows and piles of pumpkins surrounding both of them. “Well— that’s not hard to do here...” he says dryly. He can’t be pleasing customers like the Vaughns usually do with sarcasm like that. Pete thinks he might already be in love.

He grins widely. “Do you have any recommendations?” 

“Uh.” The man frowns, brow furrowing in an extremely attractive way; Pete decides he could watch him frown and pout and brood like that for hours. It’s clear he doesn’t know what to do with this question. “I mean… All of our pumpkins are pretty awesome, you know?” He looks around for a moment, then seems to point one out at random. “What about that one?”

He goes over to lift it up. Pete has to admit he’s impressed; this guy doesn’t look like the type who could lift a giant pumpkin like that so easily. Pete’s not sure he could lift it, and he considers himself pretty strong. He wonders if this guy works out, and considers it as a conversation starter. _ You lift, bro? _

The kid leans down and drops the pumpkin in front of Pete. It misses his foot by about half an inch. “See, it’s uh… orange and, like, a nice— Um. Round shape. So, yeah. This is my recommendation.” 

“Wow,” says Pete, unable to hide his grin. “You’re really bad at this.”

“What? No, I’m just—”

“That was the worst pitch for buying that pumpkin I’ve ever heard. Orange and round? Come on.”

“It’s a pumpkin,” the man replies, clearly exasperated. “You wanted a pumpkin. There you are. One orange and round pumpkin for you. Happy Halloween.”

Pete looks down at the pumpkin. He’s not being picky here, it’s just… there are definitely more elements he’s looking for than ‘orange and round’. He bends down and pokes at its stem. “I don’t know, it just doesn’t seem quite right to me.” He looks back up at this gorgeous man, this terrible pumpkin salesman, and smiles. 

“Okay,” the man says slowly. “What are you looking for exactly, beyond orange and round?” 

Pete stands back up, leaving the pumpkin on the ground. “Not sure. Maybe something bigger?” 

The man looks down at the pumpkin at their feet, then back up at Pete. This one is pretty big, Pete has to admit, compared to the others here. But it’s not _ that _big. It’s small enough for this short, soft, little dude to pick it up, they’ve gotta have bigger.

“Okay…” The little dude sighs, eyes scanning the pumpkins around them. “Well, these are all our biggest. If you’re looking for the biggest one here...” He starts walking along the row of large pumpkins. Pete follows and almost runs right into him when he stops suddenly. “This is our biggest,” he says. 

The pumpkin he’s pointing at is definitely very big. Better shape than the other one too. “Also orange and round,” Pete says with a small smile.

“You want it or not?” is the only muttered reply he gets.

Alright,” Pete admits. “This one does look pretty good. I’ll take it.” 

The salesman seems to relax a little, like he thought Pete might be a _ difficult _customer or something. Which is insulting. Pete is being charming, obviously. “Great, okay. That’s eighteen dollars.” 

Pete digs around in his pocket for a moment before handing over a twenty dollar bill. “You weren’t here last year,” he says as casually as he can. He’s very aware that after he’s bought this pumpkin he has no reason to come back here and see this guy again. 

“You were?” the man replies as he rifles through a fanny pack hiding under his jacket for Pete’s change.

“I come every year,” Pete says. “This is the first time I’m seeing _ you _. I thought the Vaughns only hired family.”

“They do.” The man hands Pete some scrunched dollar notes and says with a shrug, “I’m their grandson. I came to work for the summer.” 

Pete raises an eyebrow. “You know… it’s fall, right? You might be overstaying a bit.” 

“I know that.” The man frowns at him, and Pete has the distinct impression he just stepped on a nerve, somehow. “I… I guess I like it here so much, I just had to stay another season.” He shrugs, eyes on the ground as he shoves his hands back in his pockets. Pete doesn’t think he looks like he likes working here. Actually, Pete thinks he looks like he’d like to be anywhere else. But maybe he does like it here. Maybe he just doesn’t like _ this _part, selling stuff and talking to customers. Pete should probably take the hint. 

Pete rarely takes the hint.

“Well, I’m glad you’re still here,” he says before he can stop himself.

That certainly gets the guy’s attention. He frowns up at Pete, and as their eyes meet Pete gets the impression that this man is actually really _ looking _at him for the first time. He seems to scan Pete’s face several times over, and Pete doesn’t miss the way his eyes linger on his lips for longer than might be necessary. He can relate. “Yeah?” the man says slowly.

Pete grins. “Not often I get some eye candy while pumpkin hunting,” he says, winking, and decides that his goal in life should hereby be to pay this guy compliment after compliment if it results in such a wonderful heated blush every time.

“Are… are you making fun of me?” the man asks, flushing through a frown, which wow, Pete definitely needs to pay him more compliments if that’s where his mind goes. 

Pete laughs a little. “Relax. I wasn’t making fun, I swear. I’m sorry. I just think you’re cute and y’know,” he pokes at the man’s hat, “you clearly have excellent taste in bands too.” 

The man brings the brim of his hat up a little. “You like Racetraitor?” 

“I do.” Pete grins. “Big fan of that scene. You seen them live?”

“Duh.” 

“Sick, right? You know, I played with them for a while.”

“You did not!”

“Honest to God, I’m good friends with the drummer. I filled in on two tours - played bass.”

“You play bass?” the man asks, obviously curious now. 

Pete nods, and doesn’t add _ poorly _because he’s trying to impress this guy. “I’m in a ton of bands — Arma Angelus, Extinction, Birthright,” he says, and okay, maybe he’s bragging a little bit, but he has to admit it feels pretty good when the man’s eyes widen in recognition and something very close to awe. “What about you? You play?”

“Yeah—” he begins, then seems to stop himself. He frowns. “I mean, I did. A little. Not anymore though. I mostly just farm now.” 

There’s a pause. Pete waits for him to continue, and when he realises that isn’t going to happen, Pete says slowly, “Well, that’s okay. I like you anyway, Vaughn Junior. Maybe I’ll see you at a show.” He grins, charming. 

Pete’s not stupid. He sees the way this guy is glancing at him under his hat. He sees the way his gaze lingers between Pete’s eyes and his lips and his biceps. 

After a moment, the man says quietly, “It’s Stump.”

“What?”

“Not Vaughn, Stump,” he says, shrugging. “Gran and Pops are on my mother’s side, but I have my dad’s name— I’m Stump. My last name, I mean. My first name is Patrick. Um. But yeah. I’m not… Vaughn Junior. Or Stump Junior, really. I mean, you can just call me Patrick.”

Pete watches with amused interest as this stranger — _ Patrick _— struggles his way through that, avoiding Pete’s eyes and fidgeting with his hat. “Stump,” Pete repeats slowly. “You know, it’s really unfortunate your grandparents don’t share that name.”

Patrick frowns. “It is?”

Pete grins widely. “Stump’s Pumpkins? Come on.” He puts a hand up, realising something. “Wait, no. _ Stumpkins _! Oh, if you take over this business from your grandparents one day, you’ve gotta call it that!” 

Patrick stares at Pete, then starts to laugh. Pete is thrilled; he definitely wants to make a habit of making Patrick Stump laugh like that. “Oh, that’s awful... You’re awful, dude. I am not calling anything that—” 

“Stumpkins Pumpkins! C’mon, it’s cute!”

“Our pumpkins aren’t cute. It’s Halloween. I think they’re supposed to be scary.”

“Oh, _ Stumpkin _ , your _ pumpkins _are the cutest around.” A pause. “Not a euphemism.”

Patrick snorts, looking somewhat bemused. “I didn’t think it _ was _—”

“Just think about it.”

Patrick shakes his head. “I mean, it… it doesn’t matter. I’m not taking over the business anyway. To be honest, I can’t think of anything worse.” 

There’s a pause, the only sound the laughter of children and chattering of pumpkin hunters behind them. Pete watches as Patrick stares down at the pumpkin at their feet. His laughter has stopped and his smile has slipped; he seems deep in thought now, something melancholy hiding behind his eyes. 

“I thought you liked it here,” Pete says eventually. “I thought that’s why you stopped a whole extra season, right?”

Patrick meets Pete’s eyes, looking hesitant behind his glasses. “I mean, I—” He shrugs, looking away. “It’s just not what I wanna do my whole life, you know? Surely you get that?” 

Pete nods. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I get that.” He can’t help but feel there’s something more to it than that, but as Patrick shoves his hands in his pockets, clearing his throat and eyeing the other customers around them, Pete gets the feeling that this is his cue to leave. 

None of it is really his business, anyway. He doesn’t know Patrick at all. He should leave. He should take his pumpkin, go home to his crappy little apartment he shares with his dog, make dinner, go to bed and never think of this stupidly attractive young pumpkin seller ever again. 

That’s what he should do. 

Pete picks up his pumpkin. It’s heavy as fuck and he immediately feels it slipping through his fingers, but after Patrick lifted that other one up without a care in the world, there’s no way Pete’s showing any weakness with this one. 

Patrick seems to see the struggle regardless. “You need some help?” he asks, and Pete sees the beginnings of another smile in his expression. 

“No,” Pete says quickly. “No, I got it.” He awkwardly maneuvers the pumpkin in his arms until it’s a little more comfortable. “I’ll, uh— I’ll see you around, I guess. It was nice… meeting you.”

“Yeah,” Patrick mutters, smiling more fully now. Pete is trying hard not to think how nice his smile is. It’s not helping anything. “You too. Um. Bye.”

Pete carries his pumpkin back to his car, dropping it into the passenger seat and trying to ignore everything that’s begging him to turn around and ask for Patrick’s phone number.

It’s fine. He’s never going to see that man again.

**

Pete really had planned to never see Patrick Stump ever again — or at least, not until next October if he’s still working at Vaughn Farm. It’s really for the best. Pete’s relationships never end well and they never last long. Pete has had bottles of milk in his fridge that have gotten less stale in the amount of time his relationships take to go off. He wouldn’t want to drag Patrick into that by asking him out on a date.

Fate has a funny way of turning things around though.

And surely it must be fate that’s driving him back to Vaugn Farm less than a week later. Or at least, it is if you call Joe Trohman fate anyway. Joe Trohman, fellow bandmate, weed buddy and man who looked at the large pumpkin on Pete’s kitchen countertop and said, more than a little bit high, “Dude, could you get me one of those?”

Who was Pete to say no, really? He’s just being a good friend.

He brings his dog along as well. He tells himself it’s because he knows Hemmy will like the fresh country air and he can walk him in the forest that sits next to the farm, but truthfully at least half of his reasoning is just that he’s too curious to see if Patrick’s a dog person or not. He can’t deny that he'll be disappointed if he’s not. 

Pete hears somebody shout his name as he’s wandering between the piles of baby pumpkins. It’s not Patrick, sadly, but it is a friendly face. Mr Vaughn, grinning and looking thrilled to see Pete. Pete is reminded of why he’s enjoyed coming here in the past, even before meeting Patrick. Mr and Mrs Vaughn have an infectious cheerfulness to them and for some reason they always seem inexplicably pleased to see Pete around. “Pete, it’s so good to see you again! And Hemmy too,” Mr Vaughn adds, reaching over to pet Hemmingway behind his ears. “We are blessed!”

“Hey, man. Excellent crop as usual,” says Pete.

“You’re late this season.”

“Nah, I was here last week actually. I saw you got some extra hands around the farm.”

“Oh, you met Patrick?” Mr Vaughn says, animated. “Mm, good kid. Not the… most thorough guy for the job, but...” There’s a pause and he frowns slightly, as though thinking on his choice of words. “Well, he’s dedicated,” he says finally. 

“Dedicated,” Pete repeats quietly. Honestly, the short conversation he had with Patrick didn’t sound like Patrick was particularly dedicated to this job at all. But Pete’s not about to claim that one short conversation leads him to be the Patrick expert, so he simply nods agreeably. “Is he… about?” he asks cautiously. “He just mentioned bands before and… well, I have some music recommendations for him.” 

This, at least, is true. Pete doesn’t even have to think about it; he has bands he’s sure Patrick must like. He has bands he wants Patrick to like. (His own, for one.) 

“Music,” says Mr Vaughn through a smile. “Well, that’ll certainly get his attention. I think he’s out and about with the customers — he _ should _be anyway. Check by the farm house, with the giant pumpkins. He seems to like sticking close to the house.” 

Pete does indeed find Patrick by the larger pumpkins, with a customer again. He stands idly nearby, waiting for them to be done. Unfortunately this seems less likely to happen anytime soon the longer Pete watches Patrick struggle through pleasing this, quite frankly, _ asshole _of a customer.

“Look,” the guy says; he’s tall, skinny, bearded and has an expression like microwaved dogshit. “I’m just saying, this pumpkin is not _ worth _ that much. That’s fucking theft. This thing’s _ dented _. I want at least half off.”

“I— I realise that,” says Patrick, looking like he’s trying to be accommodating while giving off every _ please fuck off _ vibe Pete’s ever seen. “I just— I’ll get into trouble if I take off any more than a few bucks.” 

“That’s not my problem, dig into your own pocket if you have to.” 

“I— I can take like, three dollars off and—”

“I want _ half _off, at least!” 

Pete frowns, growing more disgruntled by the second, and considers whether or not to step in. He tells himself Patrick probably has this, can probably handle it just fine, when Patrick says the worst thing he could possibly say: “I… I mean, the pumpkin really isn’t even that bad.”

“What?”

“The mark you’re talking about… it’s not really a dent. This is actually one of our best here, probably, I mean—”

“Are you calling me a fucking liar?” The customer takes an aggressive step forward. Pete, unable to stand where he is anymore, head pulsing with the way his teeth are grit together, also steps forward.

“No, no, of course not!” Patrick is saying quickly, clearly alarmed. 

“Hey,” Pete says, coming in between them both. “_ Back off _ and _ relax _, man, that’s not what’s happening here.”

The stranger’s eyes look Pete up and down, like he’s trying him on for size. Pete’s pretty sure he could take this guy. What he lacks in height he makes up for in experience and readiness to fight dirty. Let him try something. Pete will kick him on his ass. 

“This has got nothing to do with you, man. We’re just sorting something out here,” the man mutters, but he seems wary now, backing up just a little. 

“I think you already sorted it,” says Pete. “He told you what he can take off for that pumpkin. How about you take it or get the hell out of here?”

There’s a second of quiet, the loudness noise Hemmingway, who has started to growl quietly beside Pete. The man seems torn, his face growing redder. He looks between Pete and his dog. Then he just shakes his head, turning around. “Whatever,” he mutters, and marches off toward the gates. 

Beside him, Pete feels Patrick relax somewhat. “Are you okay?” Pete asks immediately. “He was a fucking asshole.”

“Yeah… Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks,” he murmurs. “I… I could’ve handled it, but… thanks.”

Pete feels his anger slip into something softer, fonder, as their eyes meet. “It’s okay. You shouldn’t need to handle it.”

“Yeah, well. Comes with the job sometimes. I mean, I wouldn't even have minded all that much if he’d tried it with one of the pumpkins that are actually dented, y’know? But that was one of our roundest, plumpest, _ best _pumpkins here. No one’s getting half off for that,” Patrick says huffily. 

Pete is grinning like an idiot now, he can’t help it. Listening to Patrick rant as he frowns and pouts, face flushed, is way more attractive than it probably should be. “Orange and round,” he says quietly, and Patrick’s eyes meet his.

“I’m just saying,” Patrick mutters, cheeks pink “You wanna play me for an idiot, do it in a way where you aren’t as _ obvious _of a douchebag.” 

It’s then that Patrick seems to notice that Hemmy has decided to make himself known by sniffing at Patrick’s ankles, tail wagging wildly. He smiles, leaning down to pet him. “Is this your dog?”

“That’s Hemmingway,” Pete says, watching with interest as Hemmy jumps up at Patrick, attempting to lick his face. “Sorry if he’s a bit much, he’s clearly already madly in love.”

Patrick only laughs, scratching him behind his ears with even more enthusiasm. “That’s okay, I already love him too.”

“You’re a dog person,” says Pete happily, trying a failing to reign Hemmingway in a little by pulling on his leash. “I’m glad.” 

Patrick smiles against Hemmy’s fur. “I’m definitely a dog person,” he says. One last scratch behind the ears and he moves away, leaning down to pick up that perfect pumpkin the asshole left on the ground. It’s big, but again Patrick seems to have no problem taking it over to where it belongs with the rest. “Are you here for another pumpkin?” he asks as Pete and Hemmy follow him over. “Or did you just sense I needed help with that douchebag?” 

“My Stumpkin senses were tingling,” Pete says dryly. 

Patrick places down the pumpkin, but not before Pete sees his slightly disgruntled expression. “That’s a shitty nickname.”

“I didn’t call _ you _that, I called my weird sixth Patrick Stump sense that.” Patrick straightens back up, raising an eyebrow. “Okay, I’m actually here because my bandmate was so impressed by my own incredible pumpkin he just had to get one of his own, and what d’you know? He sent me to get one rather than bother himself. Joe’s a lazy asshole like that.”

Patrick smiles, looking Pete over. “Well, I won’t complain if it means getting to meet this guy,” he says, gesturing to Hemmingway, who’s now sniffing at one of the pumpkins. Pete lets him; they’ll probably be fine as long as he doesn’t start peeing on any of them (please God, don’t let his dog start peeing on the pumpkins his crush is trying to sell).

“I’m Pete, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“It occurred to me that I know your name, you know my dog’s name, but you don’t know mine,” Pete says. “It’s Pete.”

“Oh, uh, I know.”

Pete raises an eyebrow. “You do?”

“I mentioned you to my Gran, she told me your name. She said you come by during strawberry season too.”

This immediately has Pete grinning, thrilled by this development. “Aw, Patrick, you’ve been mentioning me to people?”

Patrick, apparently seeming to realise his mistake, turns bright red and avoids Pete’s gaze. “No, no. Just… I don’t know, she saw me with you.”

Pete doesn’t bother hiding his smirk. There’s no way that’s true. “Sure, man.”

Patrick clears his throat. “Anyway, you want another pumpkin or not?”

“I’d love one,” Pete says. “In fact, I might take that one at your feet. The one the asshole refused. Don’t worry, you don’t need to knock a cent off for me.”

“Damn right I don’t,” Patrick mutters. 

“Maybe I won’t give it to Joe at all. Maybe I’ll smash it on that douchebag’s car.”

“I think he’s already gone.”

“I could find him.”

“How about you just give it to your bandmate for now,” Patrick says, picking up the pumpkin easily and handing it to Pete. It’s, if possible, even heavier than last week’s, and Pete struggles to hold it up. 

“Right,” he mutters. 

“Is he in Racetraitor too?” Patrick asks, apparently oblivious to, or choosing to ignore, the way Pete struggles to get a grip on the pumpkin slipping between his fingers. “Joe? Your friend?” 

“Racetraitor?” Pete repeats, trying to prevent the pumpkin from falling with his knee. “Ah, no— fuck— no, we’re starting a different band— a new one, a pop punk thing— Shit—” He tries to tighten his hold. 

“You need some help with that?”

“Nah, man, I got it,” Pete mutters, well aware than he’s a short finger movement away from not _ got _ting it one bit.

Patrick rolls his eyes, but doesn’t attempt to help hold up the pumpkin - which is fair, is what Pete asked for, but still, Pete finds himself regretting all life choices as his arms strain with the huge weight. 

“A pop punk thing,” Patrick says, nodding slightly. “Sounds cool.” He’s frowning, just a little, something hidden in his expression. 

Pete watches curiously, chin resting against the stem. “What did you used to play?”

“What?”

“The other day, you said ‘not anymore’ when I asked if you played anything. Well, what did you play before you decided to farm for a living?”

“Oh. Um. I mean, this and that. Not much. I’ve always loved the drums, I played drums in a few bands. I play guitar too though, and bass, piano, I try the trumpet and trombone and stuff, and the violin, but I’m not that good. I don’t know.” 

“Not much,” Pete repeats, incredulous, almost dropping the pumpkin again. “Do you have any of those instruments here?”

“Guitar. It’s still in my room,” Patrick admits.

“Y’know, we need a few more people,” Pete says, lifting the pumpkin up with his knee again. “A drummer, a singer, rhythm guitarist… if you feel like showing us your stuff, maybe…” He trails off, well aware that this is perhaps a bit of a pipe dream. Patrick lives on a farm, miles from the city, from Pete, and has already said he doesn’t play anymore.

And yet…

Patrick’s expression as he looks up at Pete is almost pained as he seems to swallow, shaking his head and looking away. He pokes the toe of his boot in the dirt beneath them. “I’m not a musician anymore. I farm now, remember?” 

“You couldn’t do both?” Pete asks. He wishes he didn’t have this giant pumpkin in the way while trying to convince Patrick of what a good idea this is, though the idea of shamefully placing the pumpkin down on the ground is somehow even worse. 

“I can’t do both, this— it takes up too much time,” Patrick says quickly, seeming annoyed now. “Just… I can’t.” 

“Okay, but… you said you’ve played in bands before… You were the drummer?”

After a moment Patrick nods. “I wrote for them too. I mean, when the other guys let me, which wasn’t often.” 

“Wait, you _ write music _ too?” Pete says, shocked, and the pumpkin chooses that moment to slip suddenly between his fingers. He struggles to catch it, not quite managing it — but luckily Patrick steps closer, putting his hands out beneath Pete’s and scooping the pumpkin between them. He’s much closer, his hands rough and somehow, despite the low temperature, very warm underneath Pete’s — hot, even. It feels like Pete’s squeezed his own hands in between a pumpkin and a hand shaped radiator. 

“Got it,” Patrick says softly. 

Pete nods, watching Patrick curiously, cautiously, nothing but the pumpkin between them. “Your hands are really warm,” he says, stupidly.

Patrick awkwardly maneavours away from Pete, taking his hands and the pumpkin easily with him as he goes. “Yeah,” he mutters. “They were in my pockets, so.” It seems a strange and poor excuse; Pete can’t remember him putting his hands in his pockets during their conversation. “Anyway, this, uh. This pumpkin’s eighteen dollars, man.” 

There’s a pause. Pete frowns, digging through his pockets before handing the money over. He doesn’t want to give up on making Patrick a part of this band, he _ knows _it’s a good idea, but Patrick doesn’t look like he’s willing to be persuaded right now. 

Patrick hesitates before handing Pete the pumpkin again. “You sure you don’t want me to take this to your car for you?” he asks, and Pete is relieved to see a coy smile back on his face. 

“Fuck you, dude, I’m fine,” Pete insists without any bite, smiling too. He hesitates though, hands on the pumpkin, but not taking it from Patrick. He’s realising that after this he’s probably unlikely to see Patrick again. Not unless another high friend asks for another pumpkin. Not unless... 

“You guys sell candles and stuff?” he asks. 

“Huh?”

“Candles, carving stuff. You sell all that?”

“Oh. Yeah, actually, Gran has that stuff by the stable.”

“Cool. I don’t… uh, I don’t have the money right now, but maybe I’ll come back at the weekend and buy some,” he says carefully, hands still on the pumpkin, still not making a move to pick it up. His eyes are on Patrick; he hopes he gets it.

“Oh,” Patrick eyes widen, just slightly, before he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that’ll be cool. I mean, maybe I’ll be around, you know?” 

Pete smiles, finally taking the pumpkin from Patrick. “Yeah. I’d like that. I’ll see you again.” He pauses, tightening his grip on the pumpkin, before adding, “This isn’t over, by the way. I’m totally gonna bully you into being in my awesome band with me.”

Patrick shakes his head, something hidden in his small smile. He leans down to pet Hemmingway one last time, before he tells Pete, “Be careful with that pumpkin, dude. See you later.”

**

Pete does exactly as he’d promised to do and comes back at the weekend. He doesn’t usually enjoy coming here this late in October. With two weeks until Halloween, the pumpkin patch is much busier. Still, Pete knows it’ll be worth it to see Patrick again. It’ll be even more worth it if he convinces him what a good idea this band is. He’s already told Joe all about Patrick. Joe is skeptical because he says Pete gets like this sometimes, besotted, falling in love with people he’s only just met. He knows Joe’s a little bit right, but he also knows this is _ different _ , _ Patrick _ is _ different _. 

It takes him a while to find Patrick this time; he walks among the larger pumpkins for ten minutes or so, looking for a familiar trucker hat and green Vaughn Farm branded jacket, before realising Patrick doesn’t seem to be anywhere around this side of the farm. So, he wanders away, eventually ending up by the stables where as Patrick promised, Mrs Vaughn is selling crafting tools, as well as a small array of Halloween carvings, pre decorated pumpkins and decorations. 

He’s about to get in the line to her stall, just so he can ask if she’s seen Patrick anywhere, when he spots a familiar hat around the corner from the stable. Patrick is off the small makeshift path, sitting on the grass by himself. He doesn’t seem to notice Pete as he approaches, and Pete realises why as he spots headphones hanging against his ears. It’s only as he gets closer, the chatter of the customers fading behind him, that Pete realises Patrick is singing softly to himself. 

Patrick’s voice is beautiful. Pete doesn’t recognise the song at all, but it doesn’t matter. He almost doesn’t want to interrupt, and the longer he hovers nearby, Patrick oblivious, the catchier he finds the song Patrick’s singing. 

Eventually he finds he can’t keep silent any longer and says, standing a few feet away, “Dude, your voice is incredible.”

He’s worried that Patrick might not be able to hear him, but he immediately looks up, eyes widening as he brings the earphones down around his neck. “What?” he says, blinking up at Pete. 

“I said your voice is awesome, man. Your singing.” 

“I was singing?” He sounds horrified. 

Pete laughs, sinking down to sit on the grass beside Patrick. It’s damp and cold and his ass is definitely wet now, but it’s worth it for the way their arms brush against each other. Just a couple of layers of cotton and denim between their bare skin; Patrick makes Pete feel like some sort of repressed Victorian gentleman for the way this thrills him. “Don’t be upset,” he says, head tilted at Patrick and grinning. “It was really good.”

“Okay...” Patrick is fiddling with his walkman, cheeks a light pink. Pete can’t tell if they’re pink from the compliment or the cold, either way it looks good on him.

“What song was it? I didn’t recognise it.”

Patrick shrugs, clearing his throat, before says quietly, “How do you know you just didn’t recognise it because I was singing it so badly?”

“Nothing about your singing is bad,” Pete says. “Tell me the song.” He’s curious now; Patrick’s avoiding his gaze, avoiding answering.

Patrick sighs. “It might be mine.” 

“Yours?” For a moment Pete is confused. “What do you— Wait. Yours, like you wrote that?” Instantly, he’s grinning. Instinctively, he’s grabbing Patrick’s arm. “Dude! That song was so good though. Like — I was listening for a minute or so, it was fucking catchy.” 

Patrick winces. “One minute of me mumbling my way through one song I wrote and… you don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”

“I _ know _ what I’m talking about,” Pete insists. “I’m— Okay, I’ll level with you. I’m not… great at this sort of thing myself, but I’m fucking good at knowing who _ is _ great at this stuff, okay? I _ know _ these things. And you? You’re _ great _, okay? You’re awesome. I just know you are.”

Patrick shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “You’re delusional,” he informs Pete. 

There’s a pause. Pete’s eyes slip to the walkman Patrick’s clinging onto tightly. “You have your song on tape?” he asks hesitantly. He can’t deny he’s unbelievably curious to hear the song in full, with Patrick’s voice in full volume and backed by the many instruments he can play. 

Patrick frowns, meeting Pete’s eyes before ducking his head. It takes several seconds of pause before he finally answers. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I got nostalgic, I guess. This was like a…” He hesitates, his thumb stroking over the walkman, almost protectively. “It was a demo, sorta. Before I started working here I was gonna… I dunno, I guess I was gonna like, see if anyone liked it, you know? It was just a… It’s stupid, I don’t know.”

“You mean like… a record label?” Pete asks delicately, because that’s exactly how it sounds.

Patrick pulls a face, like Pete is being ridiculous. “I don’t know about that. I was just passing it around. Or I was going to anyway. It doesn’t matter anymore though. I started working here, so…” He shrugs like it’s no big deal to give up on his hopes and dreams to make a summer farm job permanent. 

Pete stares at him, utterly bewildered. He’s confused by Patrick’s dismissal, his moving away from music — a thing he’s clearly passionate about — to do _ this _instead. Something he clearly couldn’t care less about. 

“You thought any more about what I said before?”

“You mean that pop punk band?” Patrick asks, and shakes his head before Pete can even answer. “I already told you I can’t.”

“We could make it work though. Like, I know you think you wouldn’t have enough time, but you’re clearly passionate about music, and you’re _ wasted _here—”

This is the wrong thing to say. Patrick’s head whips round, expression furious. “There’s nothing wrong with farming, Pete,” he says, biting. “You don’t have to be a snob about it.”

“I’m not! I— I know that! I’m not… I’m just talking about _ you _, dude! You clearly love music way more than selling pumpkins on a farm in the middle of nowhere. I’m not dumb.”

Patrick snorts like he seriously disagrees with the last assessment, shaking his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on. Just join my band. I know how much you love music. It’s so obvious. You’re good at it. I think I’ve got a drummer lined up — Andy, he’s awesome — and you’re such an awesome singer. I just don’t _ get _why you won’t even try—” 

“Stop!” Patrick says loudly, and then he’s moving, getting to his feet and leaving Pete sitting alone in the grass. “Just stop talking. Stop asking. I already said _ no _. Shouldn’t that be enough?” 

Pete’s mouth falls shut, an aching sense of guilt curdling his stomach as he watches Patrick turn away. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Sorry, I… You’re right.” There’s a pause. Patrick doesn’t move any further away, but he’s not looking at Pete either. Pete is terrified he’s about to turn around and walk away, that he’s pushed away yet another person he cares about (inexplicably, confusingly, stupidly, Pete cares about Patrick more than he should _ already _). He grips the grass beneath him in his fist, saying quietly, hoping dumbly, “Sorry. Please sit down. I won’t talk about the band anymore, I promise.” 

There’s a pause. Patrick sighs, but eventually he sinks back down next to Pete, picking back up his walkman from where it had fallen in the grass. “I’m sorry too,” he mutters. “I wish it was more simple. I wish I could… But I can’t, okay? Music’s just… not something I can do anymore. And that’s that.” 

“Right,” says Pete, and he bites his lip on the aching urge to ask _ why _. He doesn’t think Patrick would appreciate that question though, and he doesn’t want him to leave his side again, so he holds his tongue. “I get it,” he says, even though he unequivocally does not get it.

“No Hemmy today?” Patrick asks after a few moments, clearly wanting to change the subject. 

“No,” says Pete, shrugging. “He hogged a lot of your attention last time, you know. Thought I’d leave him home to keep my raging jealousy in check.”

“Damn, and there I thought I’d made a new friend,” Patrick jokes, and the relief Pete feels on seeing that smile back on his face is heartfelt.

“I think you might have to settle for me for now,” Pete shrugs, smiling back as Patrick catches his eye. His eyes slip to Patrick’s mouth with his permission, and he has to remind himself not to further lean into Patrick. To distract himself, he looks instead at the walkman Patrick’s clinging onto so tightly. He clears his throat, before saying, as casually as he can, “So. My promise from before still stands, obviously, so please don’t like, try and run off again, but… is there any chance I could hear what’s on that tape?”

Patrick follows Pete’s gaze, smile slipping somewhat. “Uh.”

“No mention of any B-A-N-D! I swear. I just— I’m curious. And it’d be a shame if no one but you ever listened to it.” 

Patrick sighs. “Okay, fine. But only because it’s so incomplete and kinda shitty you’ll realise I’m not good for anything like the band thing immediately.”

There’s no way that could ever be true at all, but since the prospect seems to be the only thing making Patrick nervously hand over his headphones, Pete keeps quiet. He slips them over his head and waits as Patrick’s fingers hover over the play button. He seems about to say something, but simply shakes his head instead, clicking play. 

As Pete expected, the song is awesome. Patrick wasn’t lying about the instruments he could play. His voice, singing directly into Pete’s ears, at full volume, squeezes at Pete’s heart like nothing else. The song is catchy, the beat memorable, Pete finds himself patting out the baseline casually against his thigh the longer he listens. By the time the song is over, he’s grinning widely, and turns to see Patrick watching him anxiously. 

“Patrick.” He takes off the headphones. “Stumpkin.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“That was awesome, dude. You think that’s shitty? You’re insane. That’s song is _ amazing _.” Patrick’s dismissal is baffling, ridiculous. Pete has never heard anyone sing like Patrick.

Patrick shakes his head. “It’s not finished,” he says. “It’s missing something.”

Pete considers him for a moment. There is one thing he found himself thinking as he listened to the song, perhaps his one serious criticism. “Have you thought about switching the lyrics up?” 

“The lyrics?”

“Yeah. Like, the second verse… Hold on— Can I...?” He puts the headphones back on and holds a hand out hesitantly for the Walkman. After a moment, Patrick hands it over. Pete listens to the song again, Patrick frowning at his side, patient, until he gets to the second verse. Pete doesn’t know much about improving the music, that already sounds perfect to him, but the words could be better — he knows how to _ make _words better. 

After a moment, he slips his notebook out from his back pocket, flipping quickly through it. He does deliberately bypass a lot of the more personal lyrics he keeps at the back of the book, instead looking through the ones he saves for his bands. “_ There’s that look your face _ ,” he reads out loud. “ _ That says there’s another fool like me. There’s one born every minute _— That could fit better, right?” He looks up.

Patrick is staring at him, something soft in his eyes. “You write lyrics,” he says.

The way Patrick is staring at him, Pete for some reason feels incredibly exposed all of a sudden, like Patrick suddenly knows more than he should. “Yeah,” he says. “I write them for my bands.” He hesitates. “You said you needed lyric help. Do you not want—?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick says quickly. “I want… I mean, I like that.” He nods at the notebook, holding a hand out. “Could I…” 

Pete is torn for a second, worried for some reason that Patrick will read the things he and everybody else isn’t supposed to read. But well, Patrick let him listen to that song. It’s only fair. “Sure.” He passes Patrick the book.

Patrick doesn’t turn the page, he doesn’t turn to the back of the book, where Pete’s aching, broken heart and brain are on full display. He stares at the lyrics Pete was already running his eyes over, the full block of run on sentences and words Pete can never quite put in the right place when it comes to his own music.

Patrick is smiling though, fingers running down the page and eyes moving rapidly over the words, expression thoughtful. “These are good,” he says quietly. “These are… They’re great, Pete.” He looks up at Pete, hesitant, hopeful. “I can… Can I work with these? Can I use some of these for my song?” 

Pete smiles. “Go nuts, man.”

Pete isn’t exactly sure how long it takes, but pretty soon they’ve expanded on Patrick’s song together; they’ve improved it massively, Pete thinks, and the song was already close to pretty damn perfect from Patrick’s input alone. 

“I don’t know what this is for,” Patrick says eventually. He’s tapping quickly on a laptop he’d run into the house to grab some time ago when his humming from memory and jotting in a torn blank page from Pete’s notebook hadn’t been working how he wanted.

Pete shrugs. “It’s fun, right?” he asks, because Pete can’t deny that sitting here and writing music with Patrick, watching Patrick slot his words in with beautiful melodies, has been the most fun he’s had in a while. 

Patrick considers for a moment, frowning at the screen. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, it is.”

“Then I guess it’s just for fun.”

Patrick looks up from his laptop to meet Pete’s eyes, a small dazzling smile just for him. He looks like he wants to say something—

“Patrick,” somebody behind them says, and they both jolt, turning to see Mrs Vaughn standing at the corner of the stable, hands on her hips. “I hate to interrupt, but if I could be your boss and not your grandmother for just a moment, we have a lot of customers out here and I think a two and a half hour lunch break is quite enough.”

“Shit,” Patrick sits up straighter, checking his watch. “I’m— I’m so sorry, Gran, I didn’t realise it had been that long.”

Neither had Pete, honestly. He’d gotten completely lost in talking to Patrick about this song, about his lyrics, about _ music _, the rest of the world had ceased to matter or exist for the past two hours. 

“Of course you didn’t,” Mrs Vaughn says, and despite the fact that Patrick had clearly been the worst employee and given up on work for the last hour and a half, Pete can’t help but notice that she’s smiling between them.

“I’ll come again tomorrow,” Pete tells Patrick as they get to their feet.

Patrick smiles slightly. “For the craft stuff again? You forget your wallet today?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I just like the company.”

Patrick ducks his head, the tips of his ears turning red. “I already told you won’t do the band,” he says softly, and when he looks back up to meet Pete’s eyes, he’s frowning. “Even with you coaxing me with your... beautiful lyrics. I _ can’t _.”

“I know. I won’t ask again. I promised. I meant it.”

Patrick still looks unsure. “I don’t know what else I really have,” he says.

Pete frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean…” He sighs, scratching the back of his head. “I’m not going to join your band,” he repeats.

“Yeah. I got that.”

“And... “ Patrick bites his lip. “You… still want to see me tomorrow?”

Pete smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “I still want to see you tomorrow.”

Patrick seems taken aback. He says, softly, “Oh. Okay then.”

**

Pete comes back the next day. He also comes the day after, and then the day after that. Pete keeps coming back and he and Patrick talk about everything and nothing. Pete would feel guilty about expanding Patrick’s breaks so often, following him around as they talk and more often than not keeping him from serving customers, but the more time he spends with Patrick, the more he learns about him, the less he finds it in him to care about that. 

Patrick, Pete quickly learns, is the world’s biggest music snob. Pete had thought he was bad, with the way he always wants things done just so, a certain kind of way, in his bands and the way he would sometimes play about changing the lyrics in some songs so they sound a little better in his head. 

Patrick takes this to a new level. Though he admits to loving Racetraitor and the kind of things they stand for, he also has a lot of complaints. A long list of complaints and ways he thinks the music could be improved. Pete’s positive if he went to Andy and the guys with this list, they’d tell him in a roundabout way to go fuck himself. He does not tell Patrick this. 

Their musical tastes rarely seem to match up except for when it comes to rock; Patrick loves Prince and Elvis Costelo and Bowie, talks endlessly about the 80s records he listened to growing up. And from that, soon they’re somehow talking about 80s soundtracks, which leads them to discussing 80s movies, and Pete loses track of everything outside of _ Patrick _. 

The way Patrick laughs, the way he sings for Pete when Pete teases him enough, the way he rolls his eyes and doesn’t hesitate in stating how shit he thinks Pete’s taste in dance music is, the way he talks for what must be a full twenty minutes about how great Costelo’s first album is before he realises, embarrassed, that Pete has been silent and grinning at him the whole time; he’s enchanting. Pete finds it hard to pull his gaze away from him, from his full lips, his grey-blue-green eyes, which seem to change in colour depending on how Pete looks at him, or the way Patrick smiles at something silly Pete just said.

It takes Pete everything he has not to lean forward and kiss Patrick full on the mouth in these moments. The more they talk, the more he finds out about Patrick, the more they _ write _— quietly, for fun, in a way where no bands are mentioned and they don’t talk about how good they are at it, at how good these songs could be. Pete is free-falling, fast, without a parachute.

Pete _ wants _. He wants Patrick more than he’s wanted anyone.

What he doesn’t want though, is to go too fast, too soon. He’s still not entirely certain Patrick wants more than friendship. He often thinks, during long talks, listening to music, their favourite records or those they wrote themselves, as Patrick’s eyes meet his and he looks so soft and unbelievably fond, that maybe Patrick could feel the same. 

But Pete’s had his heart broken too many times to take this chance on a whim. He’s already decided he needs to ask out Patrick properly. Patrick makes him want to do this all properly. 

Luckily, the opportunity — _ fate _— falls onto his lap. And again, it’s fate by the name of Joe Trohman, who calls Pete one evening after Pete’s just gotten home from the farm, to tell him about a Halloween party that weekend. 

“You know that crazy fucking forest by that farm you love so much?”

“I have never said I lo—”

“Right, sorry, the _ farmer boy _you love so much,” says Joe, ignoring Pete’s huff, “Anyway, there’s this creepy little cabin in there — you follow the road, it’s probably not as isolated as it sounds — and Brendon says it’s like, totally abandoned. He’s throwing a party over there, Halloween night. You in?”

It gives Pete the most wonderful excuse to hang out with Patrick outside of the farm; he is most definitely in.

He brings it up several days before Halloween. Patrick is sat at a table on the front porch, carving out some pumpkins to decorate out at the front gates.

“Some asshole took the ones that have been out there all month,” Patrick explains as Pete takes a seat opposite him. “So, Gran asked me to like— make new ones?” He nods at another pumpkin beside him. It seems to have been carved out, though Pete has no idea what the pattern is supposed to be. If he squints, it sort of seems like it might have been an attempt at a smiling face. Or perhaps it’s supposed to be an all consuming, carnivorous black hole? It’s hard to say. 

“Oh,” says Pete. “Uh. Looks good?”

Patrick grins. “I was going for Hemmy with that one. What d’you think?” 

“Oh. Well, I’m sure Hemmy would love that. I mean, uh. Look at the… ears.”

Patrick just shakes his head, still grinning. “I’m well aware it’s shit, dude. Don’t worry. If you can insult my music, you can insult my pumpkins.”

“_ Your _ music is superb. As is mine. I think it’s obvious we’re a power team at the music making,” Pete tells him, turning away from the completed mess of a pumpkin to watch Patrick slice a knife into the mess that’s still a work in progress. “Your music _ taste _outside your own is the thing that needs a little work.” 

“You have Christina Agularia on your MP3 player. You get zero opinion,” Patrick tells him primly, sawing a too large hole into his pumpkin.

“You’re such a snobby bastard,” Pete says fondly. 

“Says you.” Patrick looks up from his knife briefly, his smile shy, his cheeks pink. 

“Anyway,” Pete says, leaning back across from him. “I have a non music question. What d’you usually do on Saturday nights?” 

Patrick raises an eyebrow, though his eyes don’t leave the pumpkin he’s sawing into vigorously. Which is probably a very good thing, as he’s so haphazard with the knife he looks like he’s about to miss wildly and chop off his thumb at any moment. Pete is actually a little bit terrified. 

“Oh, big plans,” he says casually. “Yeah, you know me. Gotta lead the party lifestyle — six parties, seven hot dates, living the social dream.” 

“You’re gonna make a man jealous,” Pete says through a smile, which slips somewhat as Patrick shoves a little harder than necessary through the pumpkin and almost cuts into his skin. “Dude, be careful! Jesus, how do your gran and pop allow this?”

“I’m eighteen years old. I’m perfectly capable of carving a pumpkin, Pete. Just wait, it’s gonna look awesome.”

“Uh huh.” Pete is very doubtful about this. Pete is doubtful Patrick is capable of handling anything sharper than a butter knife, truth be told. “Just try not to slice your fingers off. I’m sure they’re useful and I happen to like your hands as they are.”

Patrick’s blue eyes blink across at him. “You like my hands?”

“Hands are useful for all kinds of things. You’re still a teenager, right? You know,” Pete says, smirking. 

Pete has learned quickly that any course of innuendo or flirting with Patrick results in two possible outcomes: either Patrick will insult him playfully, or he’ll roll his eyes at him. Whether it’s one or the other, it will always result in his face turning a beautiful pink colour. 

This time, he chooses to simply roll his eyes at Pete, as he says, cheeks red, “Is there a reason you’re asking about my crazy social Saturday nights?”

“Well, Stumpkin,” he says, ignoring the way Patrick glares at him at that nickname. (He admittedly should perhaps be more worried about pissing off the man with a sharp little knife in his hand. He is not.) “I was just wondering if you have a spare few hours free in your hot Saturday night plans this week? Maybe I could add to your list of parties.” 

Patrick pauses in his pumpkin mutilation, which quite frankly is a welcome relief. It’s giving Pete serious anxiety. He glances up at Pete, an odd look on his face, but says nothing. 

“There’s this party a friend of mine is throwing next weekend,” Pete explains. “It should be pretty cool. You could come, you know? He wouldn’t mind — no one would mind. Everyone will be there and they’ll love you, I’m sure of it.”

Patrick is staring down at the carving knife in his hand. “On Saturday,” he says slowly. His voice sounds odd, strangled. 

“Uh. Yeah. On Halloween night. It’s like a Halloween party. I mean, it’s not like a Halloween party — it is a Halloween party. By which I mean, some people might be in their best Michael Myers cosplay and there’ll be like, fake spiders and spooky pumpkins everywhere. See — you’ll be right at home!” He grins, nodding at all the carved pumpkins surrounding them. 

Patrick is very still. “Spooky,” he says, and his voice is still odd. He’s not looking at Pete, his expression hard to gauge. 

“Yeah. You don’t have to dress up though, if you don’t want to! And I promise to protect you from all the bad make-up and sexy catsuits and—”

“I can’t go.”

Pete is thrown by the bluntness of Patrick’s tone for a moment. “Oh,” he says softly. “I… Why?”

Patrick still won’t look at Pete as he shrugs. “I just… I just can’t, okay? I don’t want to.”

“You don’t want to,” Pete repeats. There’s a long pause as Patrick begins to stab his knife back into the pumpkin and hack through it at an even more brutal force than before. “Is it…” Pete hesitates, wondering. “Is it because it’s like, a party? Because I… I mean, if that’s not your scene… If you want, we could…” He stalls, biting his lip. He wishes Patrick would look at him; he’d feel a lot better about what he’s about to ask if Patrick would look at him. “Me and you could just hang out at my place? I don’t mind.”

Again, Patrick pauses. “What?” 

“If the party’s too much, we could spend Halloween at my place. We could watch a scary movie, have some beers… just the two of us...” Pete swallows. He knows there’s really only one way Patrick could take this; he knows that’s exactly how he wants Patrick to take it.

It seems that Patrick must realise how Pete wants to take that, because his eyes finally dart onto Pete, widening in comprehension. Unfortunately this happens at the exact same moment he thrusts his knife downward, somehow seems to miss the pumpkin entirely, and slices through his fucking hand. 

“Pete,” Patrick begins, dazed, then seems to realise the fresh wound with all the damn _ blood _ leaking out of it, and swears loudly. “Fuck! _ Ow _, Jesus fuck, shit—!” 

Pete must break land speed records for the rate he sprints round to Patrick’s side of the table. “What the fuck, Patrick?” He grabs Patrick’s wrist to stop him from rapidly jerking it as though he can somehow shake the pain away like a wet dog shaking water from its fur. Instead he’s just successfully got himself, Pete and the malformed pumpkin covered in drops of blood. “Stop— Jesus Christ.”

Pete is panicking and the half a dozen people browsing nearby all have their eyes on Patrick, alarm spreading quickly. “Is he okay?” somebody asks, like an idiot. 

“I’m okay,” Patrick says quickly, also like an idiot, because obviously he’s not okay. He’s covering the injury on his right hand between thumb and forefinger with his other hand. Blood still seeps through his fist. “Fuck, I just—” He pulls his wrist from Pete’s grip. “I’ll wash it. Inside,” he says, and Pete nods, quickly following Patrick into the farm house. He doesn’t know if Patrick intends Pete to follow; he doesn’t care. 

Pete has never been in the house before; they almost always hung out on the grass by the stable whenever Patrick was free on his breaks, despite the low temperature. It looks exactly like Pete imagined an elderly farming couple like the Vaughns would live. Seventies patterned wallpaper and flowery cushions on the sofa. Of course it smells faintly of pumpkin pie. Patrick strides through the living room and kitchen, into the bathroom, Pete following quickly at his heels. 

Patrick runs the faucet, holding his injured hand under the water and obviously struggling not to wince, sucking sharp breaths. Pete’s chest squeezes a little watching the blood wash down the plughole with the water. He grabs a washcloth hanging by the bath, wetting it through and pressing it gently onto the cut. Despite his caution, Patrick still pulls a face, hissing through a gasp. “Sorry. Also, by the way? You’re a dumbass,” Pete tells him tightly.

“Shut up, I’m okay,” Patrick says, wrapping the washcloth more tightly around his hand. “I mean, I don’t think it needs stitches, right?” 

“Dumbass,” Pete repeats, because once isn’t enough. 

Patrick switches the water off. “It’s at least a little bit your fault,” he says, looking up at Pete in the mirror. 

“I’ll try and ask you out when you don’t have a knife in your hand next time,” Pete says gently. He meets Patrick’s eye in the mirror, then turns to face him. Patrick follows suit, and the two of them are suddenly impossibly close to each other. Patrick’s thick, plush mouth is right there, inviting Pete in, so Pete does what he’s wanted to do for so long: he leans forward and touches their lips together, kissing Patrick gently. 

Patrick gasps around Pete’s mouth before he kisses back, slowly, gentle, making a low noise in the back of his throat, and God, this is everything he wanted, everything he knew it could be.

When Pete pulls back again less than a minute later, Patrick’s eyes are wide. “Oh,” he says, holding his injured hand loosely with his other.

Pete smiles, small, hopeful. “Yeah,” he says simply. 

Patrick is frowning now though, suddenly looking uneasy, unsure. He gestures awkwardly to Pete’s face with his hand that isn’t covered in a bloody washcloth. “You have…” he trails off.

Pete is confused, then realises Patrick’s referring to the many drops of blood covering his face. “Oh. Yeah. Well, you did try to shake off that blood like Hemmy after he’s jumped into lake Michigan.” He rubs at his face, only seeming to rub it further into his skin like he’s partaking in a gross and unfortunate beauty skin technique. 

When he meets Patrick’s eye again, in the mirror this time, Patrick looks like he might be about to throw up.

“Are you okay?” Pete asks, frowning, still trying to get the blood off. “Are you… Do you not like blood?” It seems an odd thing to ask now, because Patrick had seemed fine while he was staring at the river of blood seeping through his own fingers just a few minutes ago. Now though, it looks like staring at the blood on Pete’s face is causing him deep, nauseating pain. Pete wonders if he’s about to turn and barf into the toilet behind them. 

“No, I... “ Patrick looks away, ducking his head and staring at his hand instead. “Sorry,” he murmurs softly. He sounds... defeated, his voice cracked and strange like before, when Pete first asked him to go to that party. 

“It’s alright,” Pete says, trying to keep his voice reassuring. “Just… Like I said, I’ll better plan my uh, asking out plans. And we should keep knives far away from you in the future, you know, you—”

“This was a bad idea,” Patrick says, so quietly Pete isn’t sure he heard right.

“Huh?” 

“This was all just… I can’t hang out with you next Saturday.”

“That…” Pete is stalled, truly confused now. “Do you have to work? We can do it another time, you know. If the scary movie part worries you, I like the occasional cheesy romantic comedy.” He tries to smile, though he can feel a dull throb of dread beginning to bloom at the centre of his chest.

Patrick shakes his head. “I can’t. I can’t hang out with you, Pete.” 

Pete frowns. “_ Why? _” he asks softly, that throbbing dread in his chest growing rapidly.

“Because I…” Patrick closes his eyes, wincing again, in a different kind of pain now. “I just don’t want to, okay? I don’t wanna hang out with you like that.”

And that… That hits Pete like a punch to the gut. His heart squeezes painfully, sinks right the way to his shoes. “Oh,” he says softly. 

Patrick grips the sink, looking up at him beneath hooded eyes. “You should just… you should leave me alone.” 

“What?”

“This whole thing, whatever this is,” he says, his eyes hovering somewhere at Pete’s cheek, rather than meeting his eyes. “It was a bad idea from the start. We shouldn’t see each other anymore.”

Pete shakes his head. He feels like this conversation, everything, has rapidly got away from him. “What… What are you talking about?”

Patrick sighs, frustrated, and turns away from the mirror. “I don’t wanna hang with you anymore, Pete! Okay? I just…” He stops suddenly, and Pete stares at the back of his head, freefalling. When he speaks again, he’s quiet, voice thin, detached, “You should just leave me alone.”

“I don’t… What the fuck?” Pete doesn’t know what’s happening anymore. He was panicking a few minutes ago because he though Patrick needed his skin stitched back together. Now though, this bottomless panic is new and familiar and different and everything he doesn’t want. “Patrick, I thought— You’re my friend.”

“No. I’m not. I’m a guy you’ve known for a couple of weeks.” Patrick holds his injured hand close to his chest. His voice is thick, his head ducked, hat hiding his eyes. 

“Patrick…” Pete feels incredibly small, heart splintering apart in his chest. He knows, he’s always known, that there was the possibility that Patrick wouldn’t want to be with him, wouldn’t want to take this to the next level, but he always thought that they could still be friends, that Patrick would let him down gently, but attempt to keep the relationship the way it was. That, Pete realises now, was a stupid, unrealistic thing to hope for.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick whispers. “Just leave. Please.”

Pete leaves.

**

Pete goes to the party. He doesn’t want to, has much better plans involving lying on the sofa in his underwear, watching Gilmore Girls with leftover Chinese food and a cheap bottle of red wine his aunt gave him for Christmas last year. Unfortunately, Joe and the guys don’t think that’s _ healthy _for some reason and insist he should stop moping and come party with them.

Pete has probably never been less in the party mood as he stands between a sexy witch and a weird looking zombie nurse, and stares down at his fourth lukewarm bottle of beer of the evening. 

Even through the buzz he misses Patrick with a fierceness he can’t remember feeling before and it’s been less than a week since he last saw him. Patrick’s words have been echoing inside his head on some sort of never ending loop since Patrick told him to leave the Vaugn’s bathroom. He’s been trying to make sense of it in his head, trying to work out what the exact words were to push Pete away like he has. The only conclusion he can really come to is that Pete asked him on a date and apparently the idea of dating Pete Wentz was so repulsive to Patrick he’d rather cut off all ties altogether. 

Pete should’ve known — hell, he does know, he’s always known he’s no good for Patrick. It was probably selfish to pretend, to try and trick Patrick into that faux friendship that clearly hadn’t been anything at all to Patrick. 

He swallows thickly; it does nothing to alleviate the lump stuck permanently in his throat, so he knocks several gulps of his beer back. Because sometimes alcohol is absolutely the answer. 

“Damn dude,” a voice beside him says. “You look like somebody poisoned your dog. Is that your costume? Sad Emo Boy?” It’s someone dressed as a vampire, someone who underneath all that make-up and face paint looks a lot like Gabe Saporta, a friend familiar with Pete’s breakups and breakdowns. Pete sighs morosely; he did not dress up for this — Joe is lucky he’s here at all. “Uh,” Gabe raises an eyebrow. “Hemmy is okay, right? Nobody actually poisoned your dog?”

“Hemmy’s fine.” Pete wishes he had brought his notebook so he could fill it up with his now useless words. He sits down at one of the little tables nestled around the house and rests his chin on his arms. “I’m the poison one,” he mumbles, melodramatically, just like a Sad Emo Boy. But he’s surrounded by vampires and goth kids, so he’s allowed. 

Gabe stares at him for a moment. “Okay, dude. If you’re gonna start quoting, like— angsty teen dramas, I’m gonna leave.” 

Pete takes another drink. “That’ll be just fine by me. You can go. I’m gonna go see if my friend Jack Daniels is around after I’ve finished this beer.”

Gabe doesn’t leave though, because apparently he actually _ can _take the angsty teen drama quotes but can’t take the hint: that hint being please leave me and my heartbreak alone in peace. 

“C’mon man, why the face?” Gabe asks, leaning back on the table. 

“Nothing,” Pete mutters. “I mean, it doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly matters.” There’s a pause in which all Pete does is shrug miserably. “Do I need to help beat someone up for you?” Gabe asks gently. Pete rolls his eyes. 

His eyes travel around the room, and he sighs. Honestly, all he wants right now is to get out. He spots Joe, dressed up as a skeleton and laughing in the corner with a hot witch he’s obviously trying to flirt with. It seems to be going well too, which is new. He certainly doesn’t look like he’d notice if Pete slipped quietly away into the woods. Pete gets up to his feet, swallowing back the rest of his beer and dropping the bottle down on the table. 

“This has been great,” he tells Gabe. “But I’m gonna walk home.”

“You’re gonna walk?” Gabe repeats. 

“Joe was my ride,” Pete shrugs. “And he seems a little busy now.” He nods over to where Joe and hot nurse are now making out sloppily against the wall. “Besides, I could do with the walk.” 

“Aw, dude— I thought you were drowning your sorrows. Forget about whichever asshole broke your heart again. Have some whiskey with me, not at home alone.”

Pete is already wandering through the room though, in search of his jacket. He stumbles across Brendon, Andy and Mikey, drinking beers (Brendon and Mikey) and water bottles (Andy) by the door.

“Guys,” Gabe says quickly, coming up behind Pete and stopping him with a hand around his wrist. He addresses the other three. “Tell Pete he can’t walk home alone to drink when there’s decent drinks right here.”

Brendon’s eyes widen. He’s swaying slightly, clearly very drunk. “You’re gonna walk home on your own? The main road is a while away, and the city is like — miles away from here, dude. Plus,” here, he hesitates, gesturing Pete to come closer. Pete does, smelling beer and rum on his breath, “I hear the woods here... are _ haunted _.” 

Pete stares at him, and wonders if there’s more than just alcohol at this party. God, he misses Patrick. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Andy mutters. Andy must be the only sober one in this cabin. Pete’s not sure how he does it.

“What? It is! People hear creepy as fuck noises from in there. Howling, like fucking ghosts or something.”

“Nobody has ever been hurt in these woods,” Andy says. “It’s just wild animals and silly rumours.”

“Wild animals!” Gabe cries. “Is that not reason enough to stay here, Pete?”

“Yeah, Gabe, I’m really frightened of the deer. I’ll stay on the path, relax.” Pete is already grabbing his jacket from the pile of coats dumped on a table by the door. “You have fun telling Halloween stories, guys, but I’m gonna head off now.” 

“Pete.” Mikey attempts to toss an arm around Pete’s shoulders, which he dodges expertly. “Don’t leave yet — the party’s just getting started.” There’s a timbre to Mikey’s voice that tells Pete he could stay and have company if he wanted; he could stay and be not so alone in one of the bedrooms upstairs. All Pete can think of is Patrick. It’s not what he wants; he turns away.

“I wanna go home, Mikes,” Pete mutters, side stepping Brendon’s attempt to pull him back. 

Andy frowns at him. “I could drive you,” he suggests, but Pete shakes his head.

“I want the walk,” he says and turns for the door before any of them can attempt to change his mind again.

Pete decides not to follow the road back to the city; he’ll knock of several miles if he goes straight through the forest. Which directly contradicts what he told Gabe he’d do, but well, Gabe worries too much. He keeps his eyes down, the haze of the drinks he’s had fading slightly as the cold and clean air hits him, the shouts and the music from the small and abandoned house fading behind him until soon there’s nothing but the quiet noise of the trees surrounding him. 

Pete isn’t paying the attention he should be paying to where exactly he’s heading. He knows that vaguely this is the way he’s supposed to be going. This is the direction of the main road. Which is the best place to call for a cab if there’s a payphone out there, or else walk along the highway in the direction of home until he finds a bus stop or something. He just has to get through the thick forest first. It’s dark. Darker than he expected, actually, though there’s a full moon out, flicking some light down through the leaves of the trees. 

He walks quickly, trying not to trip over jagged rocks and the ridges of huge tree trunks. It’s colder than it was when he and Joe left earlier in the evening, his jacket thin and making him shiver, the wind bitter against his hands, neck and face. He digs his hands deep into his jeans pockets and ducks his head against the cold, barely paying attention to what’s around him, thoughts lost, his last conversation with Patrick playing over again in his head. 

Pete isn’t exactly a clumsy person, his balance is absolutely fine, thank you, so he can only really blame the lack of concentration on his surroundings for the reason he suddenly goes flying right over a jagged rock he catches underfoot. He falls on his knees, swearing colourfully and glad that nobody was actually around to see that. It’s as he stands up, glancing around at the trees surrounding him, that he realises that he’s not… entirely sure where he is. Has he been heading in a straight line this entire time? Or did he turn west at some point? Shouldn’t he be at the main road by now? Is that giant, mossy rock familiar? 

It is possible he’s a tiny bit lost.

Pete spins around on the spot, ears straining. Maybe if he hears noise from the party, he can follow that, get Andy to give him a ride back after all. 

He’s listening intently, the forest noises of rustling leaves and hooting owls the only sounds for a long time. 

Then comes the shouts. 

The party, Pete thinks immediately. It must be. But as he starts jogging toward the noise, panic beating a dull rhythm in his chest at the thought of wandering this forest alone all night, Pete realises that may not be the party after all. There’s no music, no chattering, just the loud shouts of a few echoing men in the middle of the woods. 

He comes out into a clearing, stopping where he is when he spots a couple of figures tripping over themselves through the trees, laughing loudly. It’s possible they’re from the party; Pete doesn’t recognise them at first — but Brendon is very social and his parties tend to bring in party goers from all over 

“Oh— Hey!” It’s clear Pete’s been spotted; a tall, skinny, bearded dude stumbles through the clearing, blinking at Pete through a frown. The more Pete sees of him, the more he looks... horribly familiar. “Damn, were you at that party too?”

Pete says nothing, watching warily. 

“Wait,” he slurs, and if Pete had any doubts before that this guy is way more wasted than him, he certainly doesn’t anymore. “Wai… Wait, wait— You’re that guy. You’re the guy with the dog, and the— with the weird, chubby pumpkin dude!”

This is definitely the asshole customer Pete remembers threatening after he started abusing Patrick several weeks back. The words _ weird chubby pumpkin dude _ alone are enough to have Pete gritting his teeth, chest tightening in painful fury. 

“And you’re the asshole who doesn’t know when to shut up and fuck off,” Pete says, voice low. 

This is overdue, Pete thinks furiously. This is what Pete needs. A fight is good. A fight will make him forget all about stupid Patrick’s stupid wonderful infuriating face.

This time, the asshole doesn’t step back. He doesn’t frown and furiously back away from Pete. Pete knows why: Hemmy isn’t here growling at Pete’s knees and there are no members of the public here to judge and break it up immediately. 

Unfortunately, Hemmy may not be here to back Pete up, but there are three frowning, furious companions of this dude standing behind him, glaring at Pete and obviously ready to defend their asshole friend. 

Pete’s furious enough, lost enough, drunk enough; he’s not sure he even cares how outnumbered he is.

“You looking to get your ass kicked?” one of them says.

“Your _ boyfriend’s _ not even here to watch now,” says the ringleader, the douchebag customer that Pete has decided to simply call _ Asshole _ , his inflection making it clear that he means the word _ boyfriend _as an insult, not simply a name he thinks is true. And suddenly Pete knows there’s no walking away now. 

Because he doesn’t want to waste time on the shit talking, because he wants to come first in something here, because he doesn’t want these guys to think Pete is considering running away from this, Pete takes several long steps forward and aims a punch at Asshole, straight at the bastard’s mouth. 

He stumbles back, cursing, and seconds later Pete feels a fist hit his nose, pain blossoming, warm and sticky, above his mouth. Chaos breaks. 

Pete is sprite and fast and he throws his fists and shoes out at anything that comes close enough. He kicks one guy in the shin, punches another in the jaw, he tries dodging and keeps failing, pain flaring up across his head, his stomach, his ankles. He’s kicked again — in the thigh because nobody here can aim for shit — and feels himself stumble to his knees. 

Unable to get up in time, his arms are pulled behind his back, his weapons of choice suddenly taken from him, leaving him powerless, unable to do anything but pull and shove and try and kick back. 

Pete is desperately trying to twist himself out of the hold, pulling his arms against a grip that only grows tighter. He has a flash of Asshole’s face, ugly and malformed in fury, and feels pride glow at the blood covering his nose, before something solid and quick hits his stomach, and he’s gasping in pain again. 

He blinks rapidly, taking a deep breath, winded. Asshole is pulling his arm back again, fist clenched, looking like he’s aiming for Pete’s face this time. Pete doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t duck his head, he holds steady and thinks _ I’m sorry, Patrick, _ and waits for— 

“Wai— Stop, wait,” somebody says behind Asshole, loud and panicked. 

“What?” hisses the dude holding Pete tight; if anything his grip tightens. Asshole is frowning, turning away from Pete. 

Pete keeps breathing, in, out, slow, and wonders if one of these assholes is stopping because they _ actually _feel bad. 

Of course not: “I hear something,” the voice says. 

“You fucking pussy—” starts Asshole, but the guy behind him hisses something, voice low, and then there’s silence but for Pete’s harsh, deep breaths.

Pete is just wondering if he can surprise the guy holding him enough to twist himself out of here when he hears it too: a low, humming growl. 

“A bear?” one of them whispers.

“There’s no bears around here!” Asshole hisses back furiously, but he’s backed away from Pete slightly now, spinning his head round from one direction to the next with wide eyes searching through the trees.

Pete senses opportunity. “There are totally bears here,” he says, smiling through his cut up lip. “Huge motherfuckers, too. I thought I heard something before you douchebags interrupted my walk...”

“You shut the fuck up!” Asshole shouts and he swivels round to grab the lapel of Pete’s shirt at the exact moment the dude behind him screams loudly. 

Everyone jumps and Pete is unceremoniously dropped to his knees, freed and catching himself against the dirt. He looks up, intending to immediately get to his feet and start running, but he finds himself stilled, slack jawed. There, at the edge of the clearing, growling loudly and piercing eyes fixed on Asshole, who stands stock still next to where Pete is kneeled, is a _ giant _ , golden brown _ wolf _.

The noise the animal is making seems to vibrate through Pete, rooting its way into Pete’s chest. Pete wouldn’t be surprised if the whole forest is trembling with its deep, threatening growls. For several long seconds, everything is frozen except for the wolf’s quivering jaw as it bears its huge, sharp teeth at Asshole. 

Then one of the idiot douchebags — Pete has no idea which one, his eyes glued to the huge dog baring its teeth at them — makes a strangled, high pitched squeal and Pete senses more than sees movement to the right of him as one of the men begins to make a run for it. Asshole and the others are quick to follow at the exact moment the wolf also chooses to move. 

It’s fast; Pete is frozen and shaking, can only watch as the wolf chases the four assholes the short distance across the clearing. 

As the four men disappear through the trees, their screams echoing through the forest like ghosts, the wolf stops at the edge of the clearing. Pete can’t even speak, can’t scream. He can only watch, terrified; his muscles seem to have forgotten how to work, even while all he wants is to get to his feet and fucking _ run _. 

The wolf turns, its eyes moving to Pete, and they stare at each other, both very still. It’s no longer growling or bearing its teeth; it only stares at Pete, completely still. If Pete didn’t know any better, he might almost say it was calm. Pete looks into the wolf’s eyes. Blue-grey, wide and full of _ emotion _ , and oddly _ familiar... _

Pete knows those eyes. He’s looked into them so often over the past month. But it can’t be, it’s _ impossible _ . It _ can’t _be— 

“Patrick,” Pete whispers, finally finding his voice. 

The wolf blinks. The wolf turns his head. The wolf takes off into the clearing, away from Pete. 

Pete manages to move; he gets to his feet, his eyes on the trees through which the wolf has run off. “Wait!” he shouts.

Pete’s done a lot of stupid shit over the course of his twenty-three years on this planet, but in a move than surprises even himself in its idiocy, Pete takes off after the wolf. He only has a blurred image of a large copper figure moving through the trees ahead of him as he runs, and soon he can’t even see that through the darkness, but he doesn’t stop running, doesn’t stop shouting.

He doesn’t stop until, for the second time tonight, in a move that has him wondering if he is actually clumsy after all, he feels his foot catch against a root in the ground. He’s falling forward before he can react. This time his knees don’t catch the ground first; Pete feels a biting burst of stinging pain against his head, a jagged rock in his line of sight briefly— then all he sees and senses is darkness.

**

Awareness comes in waves of confusion and dull pain. Pete comes to in a way that makes him think of late nights and strong alcohol and stupid regrets. He can vaguely feel aches and stones and a hard surface beneath him. He sees darkness, the fuzzy shapes of trees barely visible under the glow of the moonlight. He’s outside, and he hurts in so many places, and he’s lying down in the dirt. 

Except he’s warm too. He’s so warm; something soft and comfortable, a gentle, solid pressure, holding him down against the ground. It’s not overbearing though, it’s not trapping. Pete manages to move his head and sees the coppery outline of something very large and very furry lying on top of him, like a soft thick hairy duvet. 

He blinks rapidly, head still aching. He’s so tired and so warm and there’s a gentle vibration of steady, heavy breaths against his chest, heavy breaths that aren’t his own. 

Pete closes his eyes. He drifts back into unconsciousness. 

**

When Pete’s eyes open again it’s much brighter. He’s staring up at the leaves far above his head, seeing light blue sky peek through the treeline. He blinks, watching a bird fly past behind the leaves. As it moves out of view, Pete becomes aware of more birds singing the forest into wakefulness around him. 

He groans, squinting around him. It’s cold now; not quite cold enough to leave a frost, but cold enough that his breath leaves a visible fog on each exhale. His left arm and left leg feel exposed, freezing against the bitter chill. Yet his right arm and leg, funnily enough, do not feel particularly cold at all. Actually, it feels rather like there’s something warm and solid and comforting snuggled against his side.

Pete remembers the thick copper duvet he felt in the night, still partially blacked out, and wonders if he’s going crazy. Slowly, he lifts his head to look down at himself, and promptly feels his mouth fall open in shock.

Lying across Pete, a heavy comfortable weight against his right side, is a very naked Patrick Stump. 

Pete takes several seconds to lie there beneath Patrick, closing and opening his eyes several times, before he realises that nope, this is not a dream, and that yep, that’s still Patrick, lying there, all pale, soft naked skin, eyes closed and lips parted. This is disconcerning, to say the least. This is not any of the ways he has imagined waking up next to a naked Patrick Stump, and he has imagined, wished for, something like this more times than he’d care to count over the past month. It’s possible he should feel violated right now, but all he feels is confusion, concern and vaguely horny. It’s quite the array of feelings. 

Pete knows he is very much an awful person because it takes several long moments, it takes the amount of time his eyes scan fully over Patrick’s unconscious form twice — including over Patrick’s _ dick _, a thing he’s wondered and imagined and dreamed about more than he perhaps should have — before he recognises that the current temperature of this forest combined with Patrick’s absolute nakedness is probably not a good combo. It’s probably, actually a very bad combo. Patrick is naked and unconscious and it is so cold out here. The concern rockets upward and turns into fear. 

Pete shifts, gently, and reaches down to rest a shaking hand against Patrick’s bare chest, leaves his other hand hovering against Patrick’s mouth. For a heartstopping, terrifying few seconds, Pete can’t feel anything but the soft, impossibly warm skin of Patrick chest and the cold morning air. Then he feels it, a heart beating solidly, a warm breath against Pete’s hand from Patrick’s mouth. 

Patrick is, thankfully, alive. His skin is also very, very warm, somehow, and Pete wonders if he might have a fever. Nonetheless, Pete shrugs out of his jacket, the cold making him shiver in his shirt — long sleeved, but thin. He covers up Patrick’s shoulders, chest and stomach with the jacket, and gently shakes his arm. 

“Patrick,” he whispers. “Patrick, wake up.”

There’s a soft exhale, a short groan, and Patrick’s eyes blink open. Pete is still partially snuggled up next to him, partly for the warmth, partly because Patrick’s leg is rested very firmly on top of Pete’s thigh, making it difficult to move it without also disturbing Patrick’s half hard cock. Pete is quite sure he shouldn’t be disturbing Patrick’s dick right now. It would be very inappropriate. He should probably stop glancing at it too, it’s giving his own dick inappropriate twitches of interest all on its own. 

Patrick is frowning, taking in the trees surrounding them, before his eyes meet Pete’s, widening steadily. “Uh. Hi,” he says finally, softly. 

“Hi.” Pete swallows, very still. Inexplicably, as though Patrick is an angry bear, he is suddenly very afraid of spooking him.

Patrick only stares at Pete. There’s a pause. “I’m naked,” he says, as though Pete has gone temporarily blind. 

“You are,” Pete says agreeably. “I don’t think— I mean, I just woke up like this. I don’t know what happened...”

Truthfully, Pete suspects he might just know what happened. But the idea is so ludicrous, taken straight from a horror movie (or perhaps a questionable teen drama), certainly not from real life, where supernatural beings objectively do not exist. He knows this. He is a rational adult with six bands and rent in a lonely apartment apartment and a dog and an almost completed poli-sci degree. 

Certainly, _ werewolves _do not exist. 

And yet.

Patrick sits up, looking down at himself, frowning at the jacket that’s fallen down to his lap. He moves his leg, freeing Pete, and then the two of them are sitting down next to each other, much like they used to outside the stable at Vaughn Farm. “I don’t know what happened either,” Patrick says carefully, strangely calm in the face of all of this. He leaves the jacket on his legs, covering his crotch, and somehow doesn’t appear the least bit bothered by the cold. He doesn’t seem very confused for someone waking up in the middle of the woods, butt naked and claiming not to know what happened. 

One thing at a time. “Are you not cold?” Pete asks carefully. “It’s freezing out here.”

Patrick shakes his head. He glances over Pete, frowning immediately as his eyes scan Pete’s face. “You… Shit, are you okay?” he asks, fretful now, and Pete manages to smile. It’s a little painful; he knows his face must have a couple of fairly colourful bruises by now. He aches in places he didn’t know could ache.

“I’m fine. I’ve had worse.” Pete watches him for a long moment. “I think… I think a wolf saved my life last night,” he admits. 

There’s a strange, pregnant pause as Pete waits for Patrick’s response to that. “Really?” Patrick says finally, his voice strangled, his gaze falling away from Pete. Pete is reminded with aching clarity of the last conversation they shared.

“Yeah. I was walking through here...” Pete shifts, eyes not leaving Patrick’s face, digging his bitterly cold hands between his thighs. “After the party. And I— I got into a fight with these douchebags. They were drunk, so was I. There were a lot of them, and they’d gotten a hold of me. I thought I was gonna fucking die out here, but then—-” 

He pauses. Patrick’s expression is blank, neutral, shuttered, as he watches the trees ahead of them both like staring at bark fascinates him endlessly.

“Then there was this wolf,” Pete says softly, and he sees Patrick tense. “The wolf scared them off, he saved me. A wolf with… dark blond, copper hair. And… and these eyes— eyes like yours.” Patrick turns his head and his gaze — grey-blue eyes, eyes Pete knows he saw in that wolf last night — is steady and unwavering on Pete. “It was you,” Pete whispers. “You were the wolf.”

“You sound crazy,” Patrick says quietly, but there’s a noticeable crack in his shuttered expression. “You sounds like you were dreaming.” He blinks, something like fear drawing the lines of his frown now. 

Pete shakes his head. He repeats, “It was you. You kept me warm when I passed out. You were with me all night. You’re a… You’re like— you’re a fucking _ werewolf _.” 

Saying it out loud like that seems to break something in both of them. Patrick draws in a short, quick breath, turning away, though not before Pete sees his eyes, bright and terrified. “No,” he says, voice small. 

Pete’s heart is beating fast, like he’s in the middle of a fucking Arma set. It’s not fear though. He’s not afraid of Patrick. If anything, he’s almost relieved. “It’s okay.” Hesitantly, he places a hand on Patrick’s shoulder, his pale skin warm and soft. “I’m sorry, hey. It’s okay.”

“Fuck.” Patrick rubs at his eyes, shaking his head. “It’s not okay.”

“It is. I promise.” Pete sees Patrick’s eyes squeeze shut and his heart clenches uncomfortably. “Is this why you pushed me away? Why you told me to leave?”

“I should never have let us hang out together in the first place,” Patrick murmurs, head ducked, staring between fingers at his knees. “I should never have let myself…” 

Pete shakes his head vigorously. “No, Patrick, no. I’m so glad you did.” He watches as Patrick folds in on himself even more, drawing up his knees, hiding his soft stomach. “Could you tell me… how…?”

There’s a long pause that stretches between them both. For a while, Pete’s afraid Patrick won’t answer him. But then he sighs, and admits quietly, “I got bit.” He shakes his head, giving a short bark of laughter. “In the most stereotypical werewolf fashion. Not here. I went on vacation with some of my family last year — my mom, my brother, my step dad — we went camping in ah, this wildlife park in Colorado. I… I went out to look for firewood by myself and—” Very slowly, he moves his arm from where it rests at his side, and Pete sees it: a short, fading scar along the side of his chest. It’s not big, not particularly gruesome, Pete would’ve thought it a small birthmark if Patrick hadn’t pointed it out. “It was more of a nip. I don’t remember much about that night. But ever since then…” He shudders visibly. “I got stronger — I’m way stronger than I was. And I’m never cold anymore either. Perks, I guess.” He chuckles darkly. “Anyway, I moved out here because the forest is right next door to the farm. Mom thought it would be better than driving me out once a month, I guess.”

“So, your mom knows…” Pete says carefully. He’s never really heard Patrick talk about his mom much before; he got the impression they weren’t particularly close. “And your grandparents— do they know?”

Patrick shakes his head. “They think I just love the stupid farm, even though I… well, you’ve seen. I suck at it.”

“This is why you wouldn’t try out my band, right?” Pete realises. “It’s why you’re... trapped here. You won’t leave.”

Patrick frowns. “I’m not trapped. I… My grandparents are great, they don’t make me work too hard or whatever, they even give me the weekends off… Lots of people hate their jobs, it’s just — it’s fine, I mean, plenty of people would love this, fresh air, working outdoors, no noise from the city.”

“You’re not one of those people though,” Pete says quietly. “That isn’t what you want. You want to make music for a living.”

“It’s fine, I…” Patrick sighs, sounding frustrated. “There’s no choice here, Pete. _ Look _at me.”

Pete looks. He meets Patrick’s eyes, glances down to his soft mouth, his pale naked body. He’s never seen anybody more beautiful. This is the man who sung to him with the voice of an angel, the man who wraps music around him like a comfort blanket, the man who debated classic 80s movies with him for hours at a time, the man whose Simpsons impressions made him laugh so hard coffee came out of his nose. This is the wolf who saved him last night, who kept idiots from beating him and kept his own dumbass self from dying of hypothermia in the night. This is _ Patrick _. Nobody could be less dangerous. 

“I see you,” Pete whispers. “You saved me, Patrick. I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

Patrick frowns, looking unsure, stewing over himself, as though searching for the right words, the right narrative. “I’m... a monster. I turn into a giant— _ animal _twelve times a year.”

“Do you remember?” Pete asks. “Don’t you remember what happened last night?”

Patrick draws a steadying breath, thinking for a moment. “Yes. Sort of. I remember what happened, but— I— I don’t really remember making any decisions. I don’t remember being in control. The memories— it’s like they’re separate.”

“You were still you though,” Pete insists. “You didn’t hurt me— fuck, even those assholes — you didn’t even hurt them, you just scared them off. You’re not dangerous.” 

Patrick stares at him. “I… you don’t know. You don’t know what I’ve done.”

The words hang in the air between them for several long seconds. “What you’ve done…” Pete repeats, biting his lip. He hates to ask, isn’t even sure how, but he knows he has to. “I mean, has the wolf ever—?” He couldn’t have, there’s no way...

“Has the wolf ever killed anyone before?” Patrick interjects, brow raised. Pete swallows, flinching, saying nothing. There’s a pause, Patrick frowning, before he admits quietly, “I don’t know. Sometimes I wake up covered in blood, tasting…” He stops suddenly, voice shaky. “There’s usually the body of a deer, or rabbit, whatever, nearby. Sometimes though… I guess the wolf ran away from whatever the blood’s from, ‘cause there is no body… I can never tell if…” He takes a breath, hand rubbing his eyes. “Well. I keep track of the local news a lot, I’m so scared one day it’ll tell me somebody went into these woods and never came out...” 

“That hasn’t happened though, right?” Pete says cautiously. Patrick just frowns, shaking his head slightly, though seemingly more to dismiss Pete than agree with him. “Listen, I was at that party last night, and the guys were talking. My friends — they said people thought these woods were haunted, said people heard noises or whatever. But they also swore that this was the safest woods around — my friend Andy says nobody’s ever been hurt out here, they would know—” 

“That doesn’t mean there won’t be. That doesn’t mean—”

“You _ won’t _,” Pete says, and he’s so sure now. He’s more sure than he’s been about anything. “You’re not a monster, Patrick. You’re not. You’re—” He kneels in the dirt, facing Patrick, placing a hand against his knee. “You’re you,” he says. “You’re just you.”

“If I was _me _out here, I wouldn’t be biting down deer,” Miserable, he lowers his chin to his knees. “I’m a _vegetarian_. Or I was. Before I got bit.”

Pete winces, watching as Patrick sniffs, his eyes a little wet. He pictures Patrick, waking up at dawn, naked and terrified and alone and covered in blood. He’s not sure how much he can help with the nakedness or the wolf’s appetite for deer, but the fear and the loneliness — he can be there for that. He doesn’t want that for Patrick. “Well. The wolf’s mostly you, then. And anything that’s even a little bit you is better for it.” 

Patrick looks up at Pete, meets his eyes, brow furrowed. “I thought about telling you,” he says softly. “So many times. I thought you’d…” He bites his bottom lip. “You… You’re really not scared, are you?” 

“I would never be scared of you,” Pete assures him. The very idea of it is foreign to him, ridiculous. 

“Everyone else I told is. My mom. My step dad. They’re terrified of the wolf. That’s why I’m… here.”

Pete shifts closer, squeezing Patrick’s knee gently. “They didn’t see what I saw last night. You would never hurt me.”

Patrick cups his hand over Pete’s. “You’re so sure…” he whispers, perplexed. He squeezes Pete’s hand, leaning forward. “Listen, I’m sorry— I’m sorry I pushed you away,” he says. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean all that shit I said, I swear I didn’t, you know I didn’t.”

“It’s okay.” Pete smiles softly, and closes the distance enough to press their foreheads together. “It’s okay, I get it. I know.”

“I wanted to go to your house and watch stupid movies with you and eat pizza and— and kiss you again. I want to do all that.”

“You can,” Pete says honestly. “Fuck, Patrick. We _ can _do all that. You’re allowed.” 

Patrick sucks in a short breath, then leans forward and brushes their lips together, hard. The kiss is everything it was before, in the bathroom, but _ better _. So much better. Patrick’s tongue darts into Pete’s mouth and he’s giving, giving so much this time. Gasping desperately against Pete mouth, his moan like a growl. Pete wants. He wants so much of this, for the rest of his life and forever. Once again, Pete is incredibly aware of Patrick’s nakedness, of his hard cock peeking above Pete’s jacket at his lap.

Pete pulls him closer, hand roaming along Patrick’s back, until suddenly Pete is on his back and Patrick is lying over him, kissing him desperately, his bare chest a wonderful heat against Pete. Even the bruises under his clothes feel less painful with Patrick’s gentle warm pressure against them.

“We can make this work,” Pete whispers against Patrick’s jaw. “I— I promise you we can.”

Patrick gasps at the back of his throat, grinding against Pete’s leg, his cock hard against Pete’s thigh. Pete’s cock feels confined and chafing in his jeans, and he groans, his hand roaming until it’s grasping Patrick, stroking him off, making him draw a long, wide eyed breath. 

“F— Fuck,” Patrick mutters, panting. Pete smiles, his hand continuing along the length of Patrick’s dick. “Wait. This isn’t fair—” He starts working the zipper of Pete’s pants, yanking them down slightly and finally freeing his cock. 

It’s cold— it’s freezing, but Pete isn’t feeling it anymore, not with the hot, desperate adrenaline coursing blood right to his cock, not with Patrick’s hot, sweating, filthy body pressed against him. And not when Patrick ducks down and takes Pete’s hard red cock in his warm mouth. 

Pete gasps, sucking in a breath. He’s quite sure there’s a jagged rock under his thigh, digging into him, the skin above his eye is tender and aching from where it’s bruising, and now Patrick is no longer leaning against his chest, kissing him, he’s getting cold again. And yet none of that seems to matter. All of Pete’s senses have gone directly to his cock, to the way Patrick’s wet mouth sucks and moves and his tongue does magical, _ magical _things down there, his hands tight against Pete’s thighs.

Pete has received plenty of blow jobs in his time, in all manner of places from elevators to shady bathrooms to the back of public transit. Never in a forest in fifty degree weather with a naked pumpkin salesman. And admittedly the cold forest he could leave behind, but God, this makes him never want anyone but Patrick to suck his cock ever again. 

“Fuck.” Pete watches Patrick, and Patrick looks back up at him, eyes dark, and Pete thinks, _ I’m in love with this werewolf _, and he comes magnificently. 

He has barely any time to catch his breath before Patrick’s mouth crashes back onto his, nibbling at his bottom lip. Pete tastes his own come and reaches back for Patrick’s cock, hard and leaking.

“You’re so beautiful,” Pete whispers, and it takes only a few short, fast strokes for Patrick to come too, a low noise, a moan, a _ growl _, escaping his mouth.

They lay there like that for several long moments, breaths harsh and loud. Patrick on top of Pete, keeping him safe, keeping him warm. Pete’s hands roam over his chest, which is tattered with light feathering of copper hair.

“You surprised I’m not hairier?” Patrick asks softly, watching Pete.

“You’re dashing a lot of the stereotypes I had about werewolves,” Pete admits.

“Mm, tell me about. I watched some of Teen Wolf. I’ve been waiting for my abs,” he says, and Pete laughs against his cheek, kissing his jaw softly. 

He has to admit he’s beginning to feel how hard and uncomfortable the ground is beneath them now, beginning to ache for a comfortable bed and a shower. Before Patrick realises and decides to move though, Pete holds him close, whispering, “Hey. Be in my band with me.”

“Pete.”

“We can make it work, I promise. We can make us work. We can make the band work.” 

“How are we ever going to make it work? If we end up touring...”

“We’ll accommodate it. It’ll just be like— another _ thing _, you know? Like, you make sure I call my mom once a week, I make sure you keep your inhaler in the glovebox of the van. You slip me some sweet Stumpkin lovin’ now and then—”

“Fat chance of that when that nickname turns me celibate,” Patrick mutters darkly. 

Pete wiggles an eyebrow suggestively. “You telling me you don’t wanna slip your _ stumpkin _ in my _ pumpkin _?”

“Jesus Christ.” Patrick sounds appalled, which is definitely an unwarranted overreaction. 

Pete grins. “Anyway, my point is — we look out for each other. I’ll look after you. I’ll let you run around in the woods once a month.”

“My asthma is not the same as me turning into a damn wolf, Pete.”

“No,” Pete agrees. “It’s not nearly as dangerous as asthma can get. Make sure you take more than one inhaler on tour.” 

Patrick shakes his head, but he’s looking fond, he’s looking as though he’s considering it. Gently, he cups Pete’s cheek, avoiding the burgeoning bruises. “You really think… it’ll be okay?” 

Pete lies there, watching Patrick’s expression carefully; Patrick is unsure, he’s hopelessly hopeful, he’s _ wonderful _ . They’re going to need to get up off this dirty forest floor very soon, they’re going to need to walk back to civilisation together. Pete is going to convince Patrick to move in with him, write songs with him, meet Joe and Andy and the others. They’ll tour together and they’ll record music because Patrick is so _ good _ , he’s incredible, and they can definitely do that. And maybe Patrick will panic sometimes, maybe it won’t be as easy as Pete’s making it sound in his own head. But they _ can _do it. Pete trusts Patrick enough. It’s stupid and ridiculous, but he does. He does. And he thinks Patrick might trust him too. 

"I do." He kisses Patrick gently. “I think I’m in love with you, Patrick,” he says honestly. 

Patrick stills, eyes wide. He says softly, “I think I love you too.”

Pete smiles. “We’ll be together, Stumpkin. It’s going to be just fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> happy halloween everyone. thanks for reading! i'd love to know what you think.
> 
> don't forget to check out the rest of the fics in the collection! you can catch me [here on tumblr](http://1833outboy.tumblr.com), come say hi.


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